Tropical ache Tropical ache is worse than April in the north. It’s worse than the ache when you plunge your head into a Scottish loch. Worse than when the tips of your fingers push out through the wool of threadbare gloves, which even before being threadbare, never fit. Worse than getting home and there’s no firewood, no matches and no tea. With tropical ache everything glows. With tropical ache the sun shines on both sides of the street. And with tropical ache everyone hides when it rains. You edited me I did the same to you. I can’t remember how things were before. You selected, pasted, took away what was in brackets; opened spaces where there were none. Saved as, configured margins, saved it all, closed it, went back, changed some more. Subject pronouns all got lost. You commented on the near absence of pathetic fallacy, you highlighted, underlined, gave the thing a body, turned mud to crystal. Nothing carnal. It was someone, it was you, it was me. I can’t remember how things were before. Now, filed away, this version stays right here, with nothing to be found in the attachment. Opening times Near the registry there was a viewing point, a sign to be read just after things got dark. It said in dialogues of comic romances there’s always missing spaces in the clouds. Poem in which a foreign national carries out activities of a political nature Doing nothing is an activity of a political nature. Looking at antennas in a storm is an activity of a political nature. Listening to Bowie in deep water is an activity of a political nature. Repeating what you read at school in dis- united kingdoms is an activity of a political nature. Stepping off the curb is an activity of a political nature. Holding your hands over your ears is an activity of a political nature. Declaring yourself to be anti-marriage followed by enthusiastic participation at your own wedding is an activity of a political nature. Hoping people from down the road will send you invitations is an activity of a political nature. Hoping people from outside the small city borders will send you invitations is an activity of a political nature. Hoping people will send you invitations so that you can say no is an activity of a political nature. Occupation is an activity of a political nature. Interrupting into an unplugged microphone is an activity of a political nature. Standing up at the start is an activity of a political nature. Sitting down at the end is an activity of a political nature. Closing your eyes whilst positioning your camera is an activity of a political nature. Using the first person is an activity of a political nature. Keeping to one side is an activity of a political nature. Deciding what to bring is an activity of a political nature. Deciding what to leave. Branch The translator is a machine says the myth in bed too it says legible solutions are drafted through the dreams of sworn attested hearts. Continental drift Here, the irony is different. But the weight belt still pulls you in to the abyss. For the nth time I say yes, it is the same sun that heats up what I suppose then must be the same Atlantic. And no, I’m not inclined to beans, but thanks again. Here, the velocity of the mermaids at the surface is different. There, the mermaids are insured for everything. For their fishy tails, which also seem from here to be less green.
About the Author:
Sarah Rebecca Kersley is a poet, translator and editor born in the UK and based in Brazil for over a decade. She is the author of two books published in Brazil: ‘Tipografia oceânica’ [‘Ocean typography’] (poetry, 2017) and ‘Sábado’ [‘Saturday’](memoir/biography/creative non-fiction, 2018). Her writing and translation has appeared in places such as Manoa Journal, Modo de Usar & co., Washington Square Review, Denver Quarterly, and elsewhere. She co-runs Livraria Boto-cor-de-rosa, an independent bookshop and small press focused on contemporary literature, in the city of Salvador, Bahia, where she is based.
….*The poems Tropical Ache, You edited me, Opening times, Branch, and Continental Drift are versions of poems originally written in Brazilian Portuguese and published in the book Tipografia oceânica (Brazil, Paralelo13S, 2017).
Feature image by dorota dylka on Unsplash
